Old Habits Die Hard
by Sanity's-overrated
Summary: If asked about it later you'll chalk it up to the excess adrenaline coursing through your veins, the heat of the moment and all that jazz. Warnings: slash, angst   S/L


If asked about it later you'll chalk it up to the excess adrenaline coursing through your veins, the heat of the moment and all that jazz. The moment of epiphany where you didn't know what to do, but celebrating was at the top of the list. Perhaps it was a moment of weakness, though the thought of becoming caught up in the craziness is a far more alluring option to believe. Though if you're being perfectly honest about the matter, you know it's more than that.

The three of you had been holed up in his flat for nearly two days straight, pouring over crates of evidence, and everyone's patience was beginning to run thin. You were feeling more than a little stir crazy, but being in charge of the case, made leaving damn near impossible, so there was little more to do other than occasionally throw out a query, which is almost always immediately shot down in a flurry of clipped remarks. And of course that bloody _observe_line is hurled back in your face, but all you do is bite your tongue knowing that when Sherlock gets like this it means he's likely on the precipice of revelation.

John had left, calling it a night around half past one, he'd pulled the early shift and if he crashed working clinic duty it was nearly certain whatever string his relationship with Sarah was hanging on would snap. Sherlock's mood had turned a bit sour at the Doctor's leave, clinic duty was dreadfully boring, and for the matter so was that _woman_, entirely nowhere near as exciting as what this case offered.

Somewhere around three in the morning, two kettles full of tea and a few nicotine patches, this was quite the three patch problem; they finally managed to catch a break in the case. Like most of Sherlock's moments of clarity, this one had come in the middle of one of the consulting detective's rants belittling the DI's intelligence before 'oh…yes,' and suddenly everything seemed to click into place.

Nimble fingers latch themselves on your shoulders giving a firm shake, or two, while brilliant grey eyes, blazing intensely, meet your gaze. Pink lips quirk slightly in the barest hint of a smile, one so often present when Sherlock's feeling rather self-satisfied.

"Brilliant, absolutely brilliant; don't you see?" He doesn't wait for you to respond, nor does he remove his hands from their position, not that you're complaining the feel of heat radiating through the layers of clothing is soothing. "The recycling," you still don't say a word because you know Sherlock is only getting started, but you do offer a nod to prompt him to continue. "It wasn't taken out."

"What?"

"The recycling, it was still there at the crime scene. Don't you see?"  
>And frankly you don't see what the recycling habits of the deceased has to with anything but you humor Sherlock, because that's what you do, and even though you're well aware of the quip on the intelligence of Scotland Yard that will follow you ask anyway "Sherlock, what does the recycling have to do with anything?"<p>

His hands drop from your shoulders and he looks in shock for a moment before he whirls around and begins to pace while he talks.

"Surely even those imbeciles you call a team would have noticed the obvious tree hugger decorum of the apartment; the energy saving light bulbs, the lack of an air conditioning system, the peace blanket thrown over the chair, the recycling bin in the corner. Obviously the person cared about the environment, and yet why would the recycling be left there when it was supposed to be collected the previous day? Check the recycling, you'll find traces of poison on the soda bottle lids. It was the neighbor, tired of having his living style being called environmentally hazardous, finally snapped decided to give 'Mr. Green' a taste of his own medicine. He's a toxicologist, figured he wouldn't be caught, but that towel he was using to wipe dishes when we knocked on his door was the same as his neighbor's, who conveniently was missing one from the set."

"I'll call it in," you mumble reaching for your cell.

Long fingers wrap around your hand stopping you from pressing the call button.

"Don't," you raise an eyebrow in question and he continues "not yet."

Any response you have is cut off by a pair of pink lips sealing themselves against yours. You're aware of lowering your hand and dropping the phone, if the light thump is anything to go off of. Without a second thought you bring a hand to grip his waist while the other winds its way through black locks gripping his curls. A soft moan is given in response and there's a silent agreement that this needs to be moved somewhere _more_ comfortable.

It's all happening too fast, feet shuffling as both of you attempt to steer the way to the bedroom without breaking contact. After a run in with the coffee table and a moment to regain coherency as you push Sherlock against the wall kissing him breathless as you slide your fingers underneath purple silk to the expanse of pale skin below you find yourselves crashing onto the bed, a mess of limbs as both of you struggle out of the restrictive clothing.

Hands move quickly working on buttons and pulling at zippers until finally sweet relief of skin on skin contact. Lips latch to a neck you know will be covered by a scarf, but that's fine because you will know what lies beneath. Trailing a finger lightly over ivory skin, teasing almost, but you both know where this is headed and what the other wants, so there's no use putting off the inevitable.

There's a throaty moan of "Greg," and your entire brain feels fuzzy. Nails scratch along your back and you arch forward snapping your hips deeper eliciting a needy whine. Grabbing a leg, you hoist it over your shoulder to change the angle for something deeper before dropping a hand between you and wrapping your fingers around the hardened member trapped between you two.

Baser instincts take over and soon there are no coherent words, just a string of breathy moans and whimpers accompanied by half broken cries of "god, yes…" and "please." A light brush is all it takes before a guttural moan is ripped from Sherlock's throat and your hand is soon coated in hot cum. Your release isn't that far off, hips thrusting forward, slightly rougher than before, and in a flash of white you orgasm hits you.

Spent you fall forward placing a kiss to his brow before rolling over to the side. Eyes closing you startle slightly at the feel of an arm wrapping around your waist and the curls lightly tickling just under your chin. Bringing a hand up to hold the equally spent body lying next to you, you allow yourself to simply lay there and listen to the sound of easy breathing filling the room.

This won't work; you've tried it before, several times in fact, each time ends the same exact way. Still, for now that doesn't matter, it's a problem left for morning to deal with. Right now you're content to silently stroke the sweat dampened curls focusing on soft even breaths as your eyes slowly slip shut.

A moment of weakness, allowing yourself to delight in such moments you know are meant to break soon, perhaps, but then again old habits die hard.


End file.
